


Thumpa Thumpa

by greywolf1329



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Ben is my favorite, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywolf1329/pseuds/greywolf1329
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's cut his hair again.</p><p>That's the first thought that appears through the fog of painful nostalgia clouding Brian's mind, that chokes him and renders him speechless (but then, hasn't this particular little blond always done this to him).</p><p>Set 5 years(ish) after the end of Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thumpa Thumpa

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at publishing any crap I actually write, so be gentle, please...

    He’s cut his hair again.

  
    That’s the first thought that appears through the fog of painful nostalgia clouding Brian’s mind, that chokes him and renders him speechless (but then, hasn't this particular little blond _always_ done this to him).

  
    It looks good on him - of course, Justin could prance around in a clown suit and Mel’s Manolo’s and Brian would still think he’s the sexiest man on the planet.

  
    That sweet smile, ever present in the five years Brian knew him, drops away when his pale blue eyes land on Brian. The recognition hits first, the confusion second, and - the part that breaks Brian’s heart a little - the pain flits by, gone in an instant.

  
    _Brian_ caused that.

  
    Suddenly, he wishes for Scotch, beer, anything, and a hell of a lot of it. Maybe some E; that usually does the trick of making him forget, even about Justin, where all else has failed.

  
    Five years hasn’t done much to his would-be (would they be?) husband. He’s packed on a little more muscle, still pleasantly ( _heartbreakingly, beautifully_ ) lean; still the smiling, soft-spoken, big-hearted twink. Brian feels old and haggard in comparison.

  
    “Brian?”

  
    _Fuck_. That voice can still get Brian from zero to sixty in a half a heartbeat.

  
    Brian plasters on his horrible, faux-arrogant smile (the one that Justin had always been able to see through, the little shit) and nods.

  
    “Hey, Sunshine! You’re looking as blond as usual,” he drawls out, considering slurring his words to buy himself a little forgiveness wiggle room for later; he decides against it. Give his Sunshine one more reason to hate him - he’s never passed up a chance to do _that_ , now has he?

  
    Justin takes the few steps separating them, looking up into his eyes seriously, no hint of a smile now.

  
    “What are you doing here, Brian?” There’s an edge of desperation to his voice, and Brian has a sick, paranoid feeling that he knows why. Nevertheless, he grins obnoxiously ( _does he really know any other way?_ )

  
    “It’s a wedding. I was invited. Open bar. You do the math, Mr. Fifteen-Hundred.”

  
    “Babe?”

  
    Brian’s stomach drops.

  
    He’s gorgeous, tall, dark and handsome, with that same little soul patch that looked absolutely ridiculous on violin boy ( _Ethan_ , he’ll never admit he still remembers), but looks perfect on the new model. Brown eyes that the munchers would call chocolate (and Brian wouldn’t disagree, but still...), and wavy, midnight hair that’s just the right amount of tousled. Lush, beautiful lips that stretch into a loving, content smile as he wraps a long, muscle-corded arm around Justin’s waist, and the fucking picture perfect couple is complete.

  
    Brian could deck him, but only after he’s done gagging.

  
    Justin looks as sick as Brian feels, although maybe that’s just - what’s that word the therapist had been so fond of, the one Mikey had talked him into seeing for all of two sessions before he told her to fuck herself and walked out - _ah_ , transference. Transference from Brian to Justin. _Fuck_ , he selfishly hopes not; selfishly hopes that Justin’s as uncomfortable as he is.

  
    The brunette - Justin’s boyfriend, partner, lover, unicorn, whatever the fuck you wanna call it - clears his throat, the look he shoots between Brian and Justin seemingly nothing but polite curiosity, and Justin jumps into action.

  
    “Mark, this is Brian. He’s Ted’s boss over at Kinnetik; he’s the owner and founder,” Justin babbles, his whole body tensed with anxiety.

  
    “Oh, wow! Justin’s showed me some of the ads you guys created, and I thought they were brilliant,” Mark enthuses in a deep, gravelly baritone. He turns his head to grin intimately at Justin. “Of course, I don’t really have the same eye for visual art that Justin does.”

  
    Brian groans to himself; that enhanced visual means that this jackass is another ‘artiste.’ _Please, God, don’t let it be another musician_. Brian chances a glance at Justin and feels a rush of affection and dread at the pleasant blush on his cheek from the compliment. _Jesus_ , it’s like five years ago, when everything Brian said about his art made him turn red from embarrassment, confidence, or lust (sometimes all three).

  
    “No one does,” Brian says quietly, almost to himself, and Justin’s eyes meet his for a moment before skittering away.

  
    “So how do you guys know each other?”

  
    _I taught him every goddamn move he uses on you in bed, you self-important piece of shit_. Brian barely contains himself from staring at this guy like he just stepped off the special bus. _How the fuck do you think? There’s so much sexual tension right now it's a wonder Mel and Linds haven’t started going at it_.

  
    Justin looks like he’d rather be having teeth pulled than being knee-deep in this conversation.

  
    “We’re old friends...Matt, was it?”

  
    Justin flinches; _ohh_ , he remembers the nicknames Brian had for Ian-no-Ethan. Petty to continue the tradition? Maybe, but he’s already going to hell.

  
    _Matt’s_ smile widens by a molar or two.

  
    “Mark actually. Funny, Justin’s never mentioned you, Mr...?”

  
    _Oh, the fucker knows how to play_. The _never_ is just slightly exaggerated, not enough to be considered rude, but enough to be a light jab, testing the waters for real trouble.

  
    “Kinney. Brian Kinney. I’m surprised Justin’s _never_ mentioned me. Maybe in passing?”

  
    _Maybe in bed after a mediocre orgasm I could have given him in my sleep, you artsy little fuck?_

  
    As if he can read Brian’s mind ( _my dirty, dirty mind,_ Brian smiles to himself), Mark’s cheeks go ever-so-slightly pink.

  
    “Not once. I’m surprised as well; you seem like very _old_ friends.”

  
    “ ** _Would you two cut it out!_** ” Justin whisper-screams, his pale skin flushed now with anger, glaring at the both of them.

  
    Mark has the good grace to look apologetic, but Brian pulls on the old arrogant smile like Kevlar.

  
    “Aww, c’mon, Sunshine, we’re just havin’ a little fun.”

  
    Justin ignores him, turning to Matt-Mark.

  
    “Could you get me a beer?” he asks softly, the anger gone from his tone, though the exasperation is still laced throughout his words. Mark hesitates, glancing at Brian, and Justin leans in, whispering directly into his ear. Brian turns his head away, rolling his bottom lip in to nibble on, ignoring the empty pit forming unpleasantly in his stomach. Mark stalks off reluctantly, only to be waylaid by Mel and Linds and the children ( _ha_ ).

  
    Leaving Justin to turn the full-force Sunshine Glare of Disapproval on one Brian Kinney, crossing his arms over his chest. Brian feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar (not Gus, though, ‘cause his Sonny Boy always gets away with it, just like his old man).

  
    “What the fuck was that?” Justin’s voice is pitched low, so as not to cause a scene, yet it still vibrates with anger, and the blush goes just a shade darker.

  
    “What? That? I was just...welcoming the new kid to Liberty Ave,” Brian says with a smile, leaning back against the wall and popping a cigarette between his lips.

  
    “Mark hasn’t done anything to you, Brian, so just leave him alone. Better yet, leave the both of us alone,” Justin spits out contemptuously.

  
    “You came over to me, Sunshine.”  
    “Yeah, story of my life.”

  
    Even Justin is taken aback by the bitterness in his tone. He blinks, as if shaking himself internally, and turns, glancing over his shoulder towards the party in full swing behind them.

  
    “I shouldn’t have come - “

  
    Brian jumps into action sliding forward smoothly so that they’re almost nose to nose.

  
    “Debbie raised you too, Sunshine. You belong here. I want you here.” The hidden meaning in that last bit is anything but, and Justin’s mouth drops open the tiniest bit. He snaps it shut as soon as he realizes what he must look like, that young, impressionable boy he’d been, that had fallen for Brian’s bullshit time and again.

  
    “I don’t fuck around anymore, Brian. Mark and I are...engaged.”

  
    Brian’s eyes flash down to Justin’s hand as it flexes unconsciously, and he actively wants to die.

  
    Like, off a cliff, in front of a bus, rat poisoning in his turkey sandwich ( _hell, Debbie, throw some mayo on there for good measure_ ).

  
    He catches Justin’s wrist, pretends to appraise the ring, while secretly wondering how hard it would be to wrestle (or gnaw) the fucking thing off his Sunshine.

  
    “Lemme guess; he went to Jared,” Brian simpers, dropping Justin’s arm like it’s burned him (it hasn’t, but that fucking ring might).

  
    Justin covers the ring protectively.

  
    “He hasn’t taken it back yet, that’s what counts,” Justin grinds out, then sighs, visibly calming himself. “I’m sorry, that was...petty. I’ve put all that behind me, Brian. I just want to be here for Debbie’s big day, want to introduce Mark to everyone - and that was _never_ supposed to involve you - and then go back to New York.”

  
    “Matty-boy must make some good change to afford a nice little thing like that,” Brian mocks, ignoring Justin’s peaceful tone, lighting his cigarette and taking a long draw.

  
    “He’s a pianist with the New York Philharmonic,” Justin says with just a hint of pride in his voice, cheeks tingeing pink again.

  
    Brian scoffs.

  
    “God, another musician. Did the last one teach you nothing?”

  
    “Well, I’ve been keeping far away from ad executives twice my age, so maybe I learned something,” Justin quips back, shaking back his head in a move that’s a left-over from the longer hair.

  
    Before Brian can get another cheap dig in, there’s a loud tinkling as somebody taps a knife against a champagne flute and promptly shatters it.

  
    Debbie laughs raucously at the champagne stem left clutched in her hand, at the rivulets of champagne running down her wrist, as Carl quickly brushes the broken glass away from her skin.

  
    “Oops, shit! Alright, everyone! Gather around and shut the fuck up! My baby wants to make a toast!” Debbie’s voice, though five years older, has gotten no less boisterous, still the loudest and proudest in the room, and Carl watches her with sappy, loving eyes.

  
    Michael steps up, blushing because, at thirty-nine and with a husband and two kids, he’s still his mother’s baby boy. Brian can’t help but roll his eyes and chuckle fondly.

  
    Justin turns, heading back towards the crowd, and away from Brian ( _again_ ), but he pauses and looks back.

  
    “You look good, Brian. Well, I mean. I’m glad.”

  
    And with that, he’s back into the throng of their friends and acquaintances; back to his fiancé and his perfect fucking life. The way he should be, the way Brian wants him to be, wanted him to be, leaving Brian behind.

  
    Ted glances back with an air of worry, but Brian ignores him, turning back to look out at the Pittsburgh sunset.

  
    And he wonders. He wonders if he hadn’t pushed Justin away, pushed him to stay in New York and become a great big fucking success, if they would have shown up at Debbie’s wedding together. If that would have been his ring on Sunshine’s finger.

  
    Then again, he’s wondered that a lot in the last five years, so...another Thursday night for Brian Kinney, really.

  
    _Thumpa Thumpa_.

**Author's Note:**

> Will update when I get the motivation (if you end up liking this, sorry in advance for my irregular and possibly imaginary future updates).


End file.
